


Settled down like rain

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bed-sharing, Community: spn_flashfic, Gen, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-27
Updated: 2008-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a thunderstorm, some cookies, and a pillow fort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Settled down like rain

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. Written for the [**spnflashfic**](http://community.livejournal.com/spnflashfic/) prompt "sleep and dreams." Title from the Jayhawks.

The air is thick with humidity and fetid with the scent of grave dirt and sweat, and a sharp undercurrent of ozone, which makes Sam shiver even as he sweats, the skin on his arms prickling with knowledge of the coming storm.

Bill McCullough had been ornery in life, according to everyone they'd interviewed, and he continues to be ornery in death, menacing his widow and kids and everyone else in the small town of Paris, Tennessee, but the salt circle they poured around the grave seems to be keeping him at bay. For the moment. Sam can't wait to be done with digging his grave and setting his bones on fire.

He and Dean work quickly, mechanically, in perfect sync as they dig, rushing to get it done before the storm arrives and makes it impossible. Sam's shirt is clinging to him and Dean's got his pulled up and tucked behind his head so only his arms and shoulders are still covered--"Takes care of that nasty chafing," he says when Sam raises an eyebrow--and both of them have streaks of dirt on their clothes and skin.

The low growl of thunder off in the distance raises the hair on the back of Sam's neck, and he speeds up despite his protesting muscles.

"Don't worry, Sammy, I think that scrawny tree over there is taller than you," Dean says, stopping to wipe sweat off his forehead with one dirty forearm. It leaves a smear of dirt on his face that makes him look all of twelve, the image of mischievous Huck Finn.

Sam frowns. "Shut up and keep digging."

Dean snorts but gets back to work. It doesn't take them long to hit the coffin, and Dean breaks it open with the edge of his shovel.

The bones catch and Sam fidgets until the ghost disappears like a candle being snuffed out; it leaves only the faint curls of smoke in the air where it once hovered, and the sick smell of rotted, burning flesh that overpowers the sting of ozone in his nose.

"I'll go check on Mrs. McCullough," Dean says, when they pull into the motel parking lot. "You can have the first shower."

Sam doesn't argue.

He's just finished showering when the storm breaks, thunder rolling through like the voice of God, and rain hammering the roof. He hums softly to himself as he towels off and pulls on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt.

He's always loved storms, can remember curling up with Dean under the covers and counting the seconds between the thunder and lightning, the excited shine in Dean's eyes, and the promise that inside, they were warm and safe.

He hears the car pull up, the rumble of the engine lower and more comforting than the boom of thunder, and then Dean's banging the door open, soaked to the skin, dripping all over everything. He shakes a little, spraying the room. Sam shoots a quelling frown in his direction, but Dean, as always, refuses to be quelled. He smirks and runs a dirty hand through his hair, then flicks the resulting water at Sam.

Sam rolls his eyes, but asks, "Everything okay?"

Dean's smirk smoothes into a grin and he places a plastic bag very carefully onto the desk. "Peachy." He toes off his boots and starts stripping down, soaked clothes kicked into a pile in the corner.

"What's in the bag?"

"Gift from Mrs. McCullough."

"A gift? Really?"

Dean's smile is wide and bright beneath his dripping hair. "Really. No touching 'til I get out of the shower." He grabs a pair of boxers out of his duffel and heads into the bathroom, the rush of water in the shower a softer echo of the rain still banging hard on the roof.

Sam knows that if the situations were reversed, Dean would totally open the bag and eat half of whatever's in it--and he's pretty sure it's food of some sort, because food is one of the only things that puts that particular smile on Dean's face--but when he peeks inside the plastic, he finds a plate wrapped in foil and a quart of milk. Sam laughs.

The shower stops running, so Sam shuts the bag and walks to the window, stares out at the heavy rain. Lightning splits the sky, and Sam barely has time to count to five before the thunder roars overhead. He starts humming again, the song stuck in his head now, and he's not sure he can identify it.

Dean comes out of the bathroom and tosses his wet towel on his bed. "Come on," he says, moving over to the desk and pulling the milk and the plate out of the bag. "They're probably still warm from the oven."

"She made us cookies?"

"Like you didn't already look." Dean peels the foil open and Sam shrugs off the accusation, sits down at the desk across from Dean. "They smell really good, too." Dean talks through his first mouthful of cookie, crumbs spraying everywhere, but Sam can't be bothered to complain. The cookies are good--soft and warm and chewy, full of chocolate chips that melt against his tongue--and the milk is still cool. He doesn't bother with the glasses--ever since he saw something on some local news station about how hotels don't actually wash the glasses with soap, he's been skittish, and it's not like Dean isn't going to drink from the container anyway. He can deal with Sam's crumbs and backwash the way Sam's always had to deal with his.

They eat in companionable silence, passing the container of milk back and forth between them, Dean's happy little eating noises a soft counterpoint to the storm still raging outside.

Sam leans back, one hand on his belly, now full of cookies and milk, and starts humming again.

The incredulous look on Dean's face is made even more hilarious by the milk mustache lining his upper lip. "What the hell is that, Sam? You trying to attract the neighborhood cats or something?"

Sam glares at him and hums louder, trying to remember the words that go with his admittedly off-key rendition of the tune. He closes his eyes (after noting that there are in fact three cookies left on the plate) and tries to place the memory--he can hear a low voice singing in his ear, but Dad was never the lullaby type, at least not that Sam remembers. He'd sing along with Jim Morrison sometimes, or Johnny Cash, when he was in a good mood, but the only lullabies Sam ever heard were--

"You used to sing to me," he says, opening his eyes. "When there were thunderstorms."

"The hell I did." But Dean won't meet his gaze and there's a faint flush rising underneath his freckles. He reaches for one of the two cookies left on the plate.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night." Sam shakes his head. "Not exactly the most cheerful lullaby." He thinks about the lyrics. "Kind of creepy, actually."

"You loved it, you little freak," Dean mumbles through a mouthful of cookie. "We used to make a pillow fort and count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder." He shoves the plate across the desk. "Saved the last one for you."

Sam snorts but decides to eat the cookie before Dean thinks better of his generosity. He's still trying to figure out why Dean would choose "Blackbird," of all things. It's not easy to sing, or to hum. Dean was a weird kid, though. Sam's always known that.

Dean gets up and dusts himself off, takes a sip from the container of milk and offers it to Sam, who finishes it off and tosses it into the garbage pail.

Dean's kneeling in bed--in Sam's bed, to be exact, though he's brought his own pillows with him--and when Sam complains about that, Dean points at the wet towel lying in the middle of his bed.

"You're the one who put it there," Sam says, aggrieved. Saving Dean from hell has not made his bad habits any more endearing, which Sam--and Dean--had thought it might. He would have missed them if Dean were gone--he knows that, though he's never been able to tell Dean about the full horror of those months alone--but that doesn't mean he enjoys putting up with them now.

"Your logic means nothing to me." Dean waves a hand dismissively and turns back to the pillows he's stacking around the head of the bed.

Sam stares at him for a moment before he figures it out. "You're building a pillow fort."

"I guess maybe you're the smart one after all, Sammy." He drapes one of the extra blankets over the pile of pillows he's made and cocks his head thoughtfully, then shrugs and settles in with a soft sigh.

It's not really much of a pillow fort--they only have eight skinny motel pillows to work with--but Sam's glad Dean didn't actually build it on the floor, because the carpet is a vomitous gray-green that looks like it hasn't been washed in his lifetime.

Sam laughs and climbs into the bed, accidentally-on-purpose kicking Dean in the shin on the way. Dean growls and throws an elbow into his ribs. It's a much tighter fit than it used to be when they were kids, but they jostle and shift until they're both comfortable, nestled together like spoons, Dean on the inside and Sam on the outside. Sam files that away for future use as blackmail material; Dean will never ever live down being the little spoon if Sam has anything to say about it, but he knows better than to bring it up now, when one good shove will put him on the floor.

A flash of lightning illuminates the room. Dean's eyes are already closed, but Sam can tell he's still awake by the way he's humming "Blackbird," though he'd totally deny it if Sam called him on it.

Sam counts slowly, makes it to fifteen before the next clap of thunder. "Storm's moving away," he says.

"Mmm," Dean answers, and goes back to humming. It's the last thing Sam hears before he falls asleep, warm and safe in their makeshift pillow fort.

end

~*~


End file.
